Where we lie, numb as a fossil,
night arrives closing doors with
little sighs, starless and motherless.
Fleeing through my fingers, I am bled
white most devout with quick hands,
like spiders on a string casting off my
identity in fatal equilibrium, blank
as when I was born; Sunday's ghost
cannot rest seeking dead men's cries.
The hunter appears clothed in the skin
of his kill, corpse-white, walking after
other gods which he knows not, burning
incense as an offering to Baal. Standing
before me, chattering among the leprous,
the wait for the angel has begun, but no
miracle will occur in a dead lover's eye.
Grief has an honest grimace, blackening
flesh to bone, flowering and devouring me.
Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; horror in its purest form. She works at a Call Crisis Centre befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings. Her poetry and fiction have been featured in Black Petals, Midnight Lullabies Anthology, Sein und Werden, Tales of the Talisman, Whispers of Wickedness and elsewhere. Her book, Devil in the Clock, will be released in print in the near future by Purpleverse Publishing. Visit her website: http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild/